Microfiction Monday – 213th Edition
The Not So Merry Men
by David Sydney
“We’ve got problems.”
“What’d you mean?”
“It’s not working.” Little John explained that the men weren’t merry.
First, they robbed from the rich, as Robin had instructed. They gave to the poor. But, then, they robbed from the newly-rich to give to the poor who formally were well-off. It was not only repetitively confusing but also exhausting after a while. It was too much.
Robin was at a loss. He turned from Little John to the Friar.
“What’d you think, Tuck?”
“I’d use the religious solution.”
“You mean?”
“We have one last robbery. And, then, keep everything for ourselves.”
“Exactly.”
Transitional Pains
by Adam Snider
On a park bench, he wallows in boredom. Three weeks after the bar exam, the immediate unshackling freedom dissipated, he sits in a hole dug with obsessive studying, refusing calls, and ignoring texts. For months, he hadn’t watched a movie, checked social media, or listened to music.
He absentmindedly watches a child wind up a toy robot and let it run. Her mother calls, and she abandons it. Its key slows and stops, and it falls over. Its eyes point at him. They stare at each other. Motionless.
He blinks, winds himself up, and speeds off to apply for jobs.
Mansion at the Beach or Cabin at the Lake
by Brandy Reinke
Eight years before me a person convinced you your insides should not show on the outside.
You agreed. When you tell me I think of your shoulders so broad, so beautiful how they curve, how precisely they fit under my palms. I thought you made them so I could anchor myself to you. I guess in a way they did. When you tell me ‘No, in fact, they were made out of survival,’ I no longer want to drape myself across them. They no longer seem like they can bear my weight.
Mutations
by Becky Neher
“You do not have cancer,” she said.
My heart sank.
She had been my biggest supporter for twenty years. Down-to-earth, whip smart, kind-hearted. Lately, though, diseases were “states of mind” stemming from “modern culture’s toxicity.” Remedies were only a juice cleanse and several ImmuNature pills away.
I exhaled, wondering how I’d cope through the chemo.
Philosophy
by John Szamosi
The past is only what’s in our recollection; what we’ve forgotten might as well have never happened. The part of future that’s predictable is only a continuation of the present, and the rest is complete surprise, delightful or devastating. The present is happening to us, that is, it’s not our doing, and by the time we understand what’s going on, it’s too late. Another opportunity missed, another error made.
There’s always confusion.
That’s why people, especially in big cities and in Alaska, keep muttering to themselves.
Microfiction Monday – 211th Edition
Eyebrow
by Brandy Reinke
Blanket around our shoulders, ankles crossed, mine crossed again over the top of yours. The rubber soles of my slippers do not stop the rain that drips off the edge of the roof from seeping through to my feet. The smell of it- wood and wet-is why we are outside. The snick of the lighter in my hand is loud. You watch me bring the cigarette to my mouth.
I hate when you do that.
I hate when you do that, I say back, grateful for the edge of my right eyebrow, how I can make it arch up.
Unbelievable
by Joseph Howse
I mean, who are you gonna believe, the ones in the kitchen or the ones in the dining room? There’s a flambé to light and a grandfather in ashes. He was a yachtsman and a sportsman and a man, oh, man! Quite a businessman. And how many times he shoved her down the stairs. And if she divorced him he’d get the kid.
Endless Grays
by Roman Albertson
Those I met in the other place speak only of gray.
I first sought the ferryman’s advice, and he told me colors were signs of madness. I thanked him, two gold pieces poorer, and wandered from the bank. I followed her voice, fading into my amnesia.
Then you, the mirror, revealed to me my forgotten truth:
I met my end by the venom of love. I rushed to her side, but she moved no more. I drank deeply of poison, and began my search for her. Now I search, trapped in memory, my endless grays traded for love’s taunting ruby.
Practice
by Scott Burnam
Cassie’s always one-third done her tea when she reaches for her Taoist to-do book. She opens to today’s reading with a heading numbered forty-six. There are no page numbers. She never remembers if her bookmark, a piece of red construction site danger tape, is for the left page or the right one. Or maybe, and likely, she never turned the last page.
Uncaring (some review or preview never hurts), she sips, ponders, then puts the danger tape back. She closes the book on her peaceful space to ready for traffic, work, and whatever else she has not yet figured out.
Short Shrift
by F.D. Jackson
The sheriff, needing chest x-rays, arrives at the county hospital. He doesn’t recognize the radiology tech’s face. Eli’s daughter, Frances, sizes him up, arms folded over her chest. She fits him with the shortest hospital gown she can find.
Standing in the doorway, chewing on a sucker, Frances watches the sheriff walk down the hallway. A sad smile forms at the corners of her mouth.
Despite his best efforts, the sheriff’s privates dangle out from under his gown. A small indignity compared to the one that he visited upon Frances’ father–the night Eli died in his jail cell.
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